


Return to Beacon Hills

by rei_c



Series: Stiles Stilinski: Vongola Sky [16]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Human Alpha Stiles Stilinski, Sky Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 08:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18656629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: They're finally back in Beacon Hills. Stiles is more nervous about that than he expected -- but he's surrounded by family and he has his guardians and his dad.





	Return to Beacon Hills

They're beginning their initial descent into Beacon County International Airport when Stiles gestures for Peter to join him. Stiles has spent most of the flight meeting the other people on board -- security; bodyguards; Varia trainers; a few clouds, storms, and rains hoping for a courtship -- but now he's settled in the back of the plane, sprawled out and heart racing a little faster than normal with home so close. Peter comes immediately, eyes softening when he catches sight of Hebe curled up into Stiles and sleeping with her mouth open. As Peter sits, Stiles runs a hand through Hebe's hair, lets his hand settle around the back of her neck. 

"Time to wake up," Stiles murmurs. Hebe groans but starts to move, sitting up and stretching, yawning once, twice. Stiles gives her space to come back to consciousness at her own pace and instead turns to Peter. "Someone's dealt with Erica?" he asks. 

"One of the Varia mists," Peter confirms. At Stiles' raised eyebrow, Peter says, "Mammon vouched for their skills. Apparently your cousin uses them to lock up Varia secrets." 

Stiles nods, says, "While your skills lie with illusions." It makes sense and Stiles appreciates Xanxus sending along what must be a very valuable -- and valued -- mist. He'll have to send his thanks to his cousin, somehow. "Thank you for handling that." 

Peter smiles, one of those smiles that lies on the edge between smile and smirk and says something of indulgence at the same time as exasperation. "My job," Peter reminds Stiles. "And -- to be honest, alpha, a pleasure." Stiles waits, uses their bonds to send Peter a little curiosity, and Peter's smile turns a little wicked, now. "All the better to annoy Derek. He's going to want to know everything Erica can tell him -- and now that's not very much at all." 

It still hurts, that this is what it's come to -- hiding away Erica's memories of her time in Italy so that even she can't remember them -- but Stiles can't help the momentary grin at the thought of causing that kind of chaos. 

"Everyone else has reported in?" Stiles asks, pushing away thoughts of Erica for now. "Things are ready?" 

"As ready as possible, and," Peter admits, "perhaps a little more. Your family is scarily prepared. I can see where you get it from." 

Stiles' lips quirk. Hebe leans against Stiles, tells Peter, "Proper preparation prevents poor performance," in a lightly-accented English. "Or, as the Vongola say, 'Be prepared so when things go to complete shit, we'll make it through.'" 

That's not -- well, it's good enough. Close enough. 

His ears pop with the pressure change and Hebe scrambles away, to the other side of the plane, as they dip and curve and circle the airport, her nose pressed to the window and her eyes wide. 

Peter and Stiles watch her, even as Peter murmurs, "You're ready for this, Stiles? No one would be upset if you landed long enough to refuel and kick Erica off before turning right back around." 

"You sound like my uncle," Stiles grumbles. He lets out a deep breath, leans back and lets Peter hold him up, hold him steady as the plane shakes a little. "I'm as ready as I can be. And I think Verde might try and eviscerate me for making him relocate his lab for nothing if we didn't stay. Am I looking forward to this? Not exactly. But I'm ready for it." 

"You've always been the best of us," Peter says. 

Stiles harrumphs and, when the plane touches ground, he closes his eyes, lets himself sink into his sky and his bonds, lets them surround him and fill him and steady him. 

And then, once the plane's stopped moving, he stands up. All eyes are on him as he heads for the door and Stiles squares his shoulders and lifts his chin. 

\--

His dad's at work but the Varia mist they've implanted in the sheriff's department is waiting on the tarmac, leaning against Stiles' Jeep. Some of the other Vongola and Varia already in town are there as well, to one side, talking amongst themselves, though they stop as soon as Stiles starts walking down the stairs. He gestures for them to meet him and, by the time Stiles has both feet on the ground, there are a handful of Vongola staff waiting for his instructions. 

"Someone needs to take Erica to Derek Hale," he says, gesturing behind him, where Erica's walking down the stairs. "I assume you all know where he is. Her bags are mixed in with our luggage. Make sure she has anything she wants before you drop her off." 

One of the staff inclines his head and he peels off of the group along with a woman; she waits for Erica, the man heads for the cargo hold. Stiles can feel Erica's gaze on him but he refuses to turn. They're done, now. Instead, he waits for the Vongola to lead Erica away before he gestures for someone else, says, "I want you to take Peter and Hebe to the house. Someone else can get their bags and bring them later with mine. I assume things are ready for them there?" 

"Your directions have been followed to the letter, Decimo," the man says. "We've also taken a few liberties that we'll go over with your mist, if that suits." 

"Fine," Stiles says. Peter locks eyes with him but eventually tilts his head to the side, submitting, and Hebe throws her arms around Stiles before she follows Peter away from the plane, eyes narrowed as she takes in everything around them. 

The Varia sidle up, then, and introduce themselves before disappearing along with the others that Xanxus sent along with Stiles in the plane, and soon enough it's just Stiles, the Vongola staff he hasn't given assignments to yet, his bodyguards, and the mist deputy. 

Stiles heads for the deputy, taking in the sight of his Jeep as he walks. Roscoe looks unrecognisable -- the colour is the same but the body's been repaired, paint fresh and gleaming, metal glinting in the sun, no hint of rust or disrepair. He expected it but it still both hurts and soothes something inside of him, that his mom's Jeep is still here but it's probably been refurbished enough that every hint of her is gone, down to the initials she'd carved in the driver's side footwell under the brake pedal. 

"My father?" Stiles asks, once he's close enough that he can see the light, healing scratches down the side of the deputy's face. 

"Doing well," the deputy -- the Varia mist -- says. "He's at work." Stiles gestures at the mist's face, and he shrugs one shoulder, looks a little sheepish. "My cat," he says. "Likes to sleep on my face. Doesn't like it when my phone goes off at three in the morning." 

Stiles doesn't smile and the mist's expression drops a little. "I'm going to go see my dad," Stiles says, loud enough that everyone following him can hear him as well. "And then I'm going back to the house. If you're looking for something to do, meet me there; I'll have a few assignments and some errands for a couple people to run. Everyone else should go and entertain themselves." 

There's a chorus of "Yes, Decimo"s and "Of course, Vongola"s and even a couple, "As you wish"es, and soon enough it's just Stiles and the mist. 

"If anything happened to him," Stiles says, trails off, knows that his eyes have gone sky orange and his flame's shimmering around him like the wings of an avenging angel.

"We've had a sun running flames through him the last few weeks," the mist says, "and a rain keeping him calm. We've watched his diet and his exercise and his stress levels and kept him away from the local pack and its issues. We all knew, Vongola, what would happen if any harm came to him. None of us were willing to sacrifice our lives to your wrath -- or that of your cousin, if you decided to outsource." 

Stiles takes that in, uses his flame to gauge the mist's honesty, and finally nods once, sharp. "Good," he says. "Well done." 

The mist relaxes, layers of tension going out of his body, and he inclines his head. 

\--

The Jeep doesn't grind in second any more. It also doesn't sound or feel as if it's about to fall apart at any moment. Stiles will take the good with the bad. 

Not much in Beacon Hills seems to have changed, as he drives through. There's a new coffee shop downtown -- one with an Italian name and a stylised version of the Vongola crest worked into the painted patterns on the windows -- and a few houses that've been for sale for close to a year have sold, all with Italian names on mailboxes and signs of the Vongola and Varia in flower beds and hanging baskets and on wind chimes and bird feeders. Seeing the evidence of his family around him goes a long way towards calming Stiles of a nervousness he expected but not to this extent. 

He bites it back, swallows it down, sees that gas prices have gone up about twenty cents in his absence, drives past the high school and sees the football and lacrosse teams practicing on two different fields, notices a new piece of graffiti art on one of the abandoned warehouses and the construction workers making progress on a new subdivision. 

And then he gets to the sheriff's station. Stiles parks, jumps out of the Jeep, and goes inside. There's a new guy at the front desk, young and fresh-faced, and Stiles introduces himself, asks if it's okay for him to go back and see his dad when he can't even remember the last time he bothered to ask. 

The new deputy -- Parrish -- lets him, and Stiles greets the others he knows, gives the Varia mist a glance but doesn't say anything since they aren't supposed to know one another, and knocks on his dad's office door twice before opening it, poking his head inside, and pasting on a smile. 

"Hi, dad," he says. 

It takes a second for the sheriff to react but then he looks up, eyes wide, and beams. "Stiles!" he says, standing and moving around the desk at the same time Stiles walks in, lets the door close behind him. 

The two of them hug and Stiles grips tight, breathes in the familiar scent of his dad's deodorant and cologne and the slight wisp of gunpowder that the laundry detergent doesn't cover. Even though he's already resigned to the lies he's going to have to tell, nothing feels so good as being back with his dad. Nothing will _ever_ feel as good as having his dad's arms around him. 

"Welcome back," dad says, and puts his hands on Stiles' shoulders, holds Stiles out a little so he can take Stiles in. Stiles knows what his father's seeing -- longer hair, curling at the edges; tanned skin; no circles under his eyes or strain in his muscles; clothes that fit -- and what his father's not seeing -- the holsters holding his gifted X-Guns; the knives; the slight orange tinge to his eyes; the flame inside of him. Stiles mourns the necessity of going around cloaked in Peter's illusions but even though there are bodyguards outside and the Varia mist in the main bullpen, no one's going to let him walk around without weapons of his own. His dad seeing those weapons would be a bad idea, to say the least, so -- illusions. "If I'd remembered it was today, I'd've met you at the airport," his dad goes on. "Oh my god, just -- just look at you. You look so much like --." 

The sheriff stops there but Stiles forces a smile, looks away from his dad's eyes. "Yeah," he says. "That's what everyone in Italy was saying, too. I can -- I can cut my hair, if you want?" 

Dad shakes his head, says, "Not if you like it like that. I -- just -- jesus, Stiles. You look -- maybe it was you being gone, not seeing you every day, but when the hell did you grow up, kid?" 

That startles a laugh out of Stiles. He wants to say that he was forced to grow up the day his mother got sick, but instead he just grins, says, "Maybe you're just getting old, pops." He moves back, sprawls out over the couch, and asks, "So, what'd I miss?"


End file.
